The Marauder's Map--And Other Assorted Accounts of the Marauders
by WildRoverMarauderess8
Summary: "Threatening us with the usual...Detention...Disembowelment..." How Fred and George discovered the Marauder's Map in their first year...


I. THE MARAUDER'S MAP

A horde of first and second years rushed past, gagging on the stench. Peeves capitalized on the twins' disruption, lobbing eraser pellets at the panicked students that ricocheted off the walls; a disgruntled-looking wizard in a long, pointed hat rubbed his nose savagely following the attack.

The Fat Lady was discoursing. "Never, in my life!" She declared in a high, mincing tone, and launched into a tirade about the sheer lack of decorum that Gryffindor House had exhibited thus far, brandishing one pudgy finger like a weapon.

Fred and George doubled over with laughter, identical tears streaming down identical faces.  
"Wait'll Perce...gets...a load of this...one, Georgie," Fred gasped, very nearly unable to speak due to his mirth.

George nodded ecstatically, eagerly clutching his twin's arm. "Yeah, Freddie, Percy'll be out of the running for Prefect if he can't keep his own little brothers in line!"

"Never too early to start—" Fred began primly, as though imitating the fastidious brother in question.  
"—Spoiling his chances," George finished, and the two cracked up even harder, grinning madly.

From their perch, they could enjoy the benefits of the scene unfolding below. Both were inexplicably pleased to see Mrs. Norris rolling around howling, unable to rid her fur of the aroma from their little prank. Finally, she let loose an agitated yowl, her eyes flashing eerily in the dense smoke billowing through the corridor.

The two small figures huddled behind the foot of the stairs, shaking on the floor, and that was where Filch found them.

"Uh oh," breathed Fred.

They were caught.

Rough, claw-like hands snarled in the folds of the twins' robes as they turned to behold a livid Argus Filch, into whose ankles a miserable Mrs. Norris kept sinking her claws.

George poked Fred and choked back a laugh. It was quite amusing to watch Filch's beloved cat use him as a scratching post. And that magnificent shade that the caretaker's face was turning, somewhere between plum and beet red…George groped for a word to describe that color; it was most gratifying.

Filch, meanwhile, seemed to be groping for words of his own. His breathing came hard and fast, but he seemed about to speak at last, when Mrs. Norris, still panicking, dug her claws into the waistband of Filch's pants and snagged them there; dancing on her hind feet, she swayed wildly and tried to disengage, but she was stuck, and Filch's trousers were slowly but surely being dragged south.

Fred lost it, a resounding cackle exploding from within, one he had tried to conceal; George soon followed suit, and Filch dropped the twins, who both were, by this point, insensible with guffaws and snorting fit to beat a hog. He unhooked Mrs. Norris, deposited her gently on the floor, and still did not speak as he hauled up his torn pants by two hands and glowered down at the stricken Weasleys.

He prodded the two skinny first-years lying in their puddles of black robes with a sharp foot.

"Just a bit of fun," Fred chortled, disheveled from his sojourn of rolling on the floor.

George flipped his own unkempt hair from out of his eyes, and beamed upwards at Filch innocently.

His eyes bulged. The fists clenching the shredded waist of his pants tightened in a death grip, as though around each twin's throat.

"My—office—now—"

"All that from one wee Dungbomb!" George exclaimed, as they picked their untidy selves up off the carpet.

But things looked a bit dimmer when they reached Filch's office, even in light of the fact that he was still holding up his trousers and that Mrs. Norris still looked absolutely dismal.

His face had gone completely bloodless.

His mouth worked, but no sound escaped.

And then—

"DO YOU FIND SETTING OFF DUNGBOMBS IN MY CORRIDORS AMUSING?"

"Well, actually," cut in Fred, with a bright smile, "It is pretty funn—"

"BACK IN MY DAY, THIS BEHAVIOR NEVER WOULD HAVE BEEN TOLERATED! YOU SHOULD, NO, WILL BE EXPELLED FROM HOGWARTS! DUNGBOMBS IN THE CORRIDORS! YOU UNGRATEFUL GITS, YOU REALIZE THAT I'M THE ONE WHO CLEANS THOSE UP!" Filch interrupted himself to stab a crooked finger, yellow of nail, possessively at his chest. "ME. NO ONE ELSE! WEASLEY, WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELVES?"

"That we're sorry?" George piped up, quite insincerely.

"YOU HAD BETTER BE SORRY! AND YOU, YOU ENCOURAGE THAT MONSTER, THAT ABOMINATION—PEEVES!" Filch roared, slamming a fist on his desk and causing a stack of papers to slowly slide to the floor, all the while clutching his waistband under his dung-colored robes with the other.

"Ouch," muttered Fred.

"Damn right, ouch," Filch growled. He drew a deep, struggling breath, evidently trying to regain some semblance of control. Now a sickly smile curdled his sour face. "You'll be hurting and you'll be screaming once I'm through with you. Now, let's see. How about detention for the rest of this year? Keep you over holidays, work you to death…"

George shrugged at Fred. "Doesn't sound so bad, does it, Freddie?"

Filch blanched, if possible, even paler. Every feature taut and cruel as he focused on the twins.

"You see those right there?"

He jabbed the crooked finger at the multitude of chains, clinking softly, that were hanging from the ceiling. "I reserve those for troublemakers like you. Arrogant young wizards who defile my castle."

His voice was deadly calm, and a composed unhinged Filch was terrifying. "I ought to string you up by your toes from those chains." He shifted suddenly, commencing to pace violently and making quite a spectacle with his trousers in their present condition. Mrs. Norris hissed at the twins from the top of a nearby filing cabinet, to where she had slunk; Fred and George hissed back as one.

Mrs. Norris streaked across the room, fleeing under the table.

"I ought to rip your innards out while you hang there helplessly, yes, ah, disembowel you for your rotten behavior, and—"

Filch had fully immersed himself in his bloviation, but Fred and George were completely absorbed in something else.

"Merlin's beard," muttered George under his breath.

Fred inclined his head towards the cabinet, a devilish smile playing around his lips.

Clearly visible, a neatly lettered label on one of the drawers read as,

CONFISCATED AND HIGHLY DANGEROUS.

"It's just asking for it," George murmured; Fred nodded, his eyes glowing with awe.

"—AND FRIGHTENING MY CAT—" Filch had found his stride again; Mrs. Norris gave a plaintive mew on cue, and as he suddenly whirled from his pacing, he got a face full of Dungbomb.

Behind the smoke, Fred lovingly tucked the large, folded piece of parchment into his rather filthy robes. George brushed off his hands, and the two exchanged satisfied looks, floored by their heist.

"I NEVER!" Shrieked Filch. "LOUSY, FILTHY FIRST YEARS! WEASLEY SCUM! YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS, YOU WILL, YOU—I'VE HAD ENOUGH—!"

On and on he went, throwing a quill onto his desk and beginning to detail their transgression: "Name: Fred and George Weasley. Crime: Defiling the corridor—" But neither twin cared; Fred was sustained by the warmth of the parchment crinkled against his side, and George, by the warmth of the laughter in his twin's eyes.

(Well, neither of them cared until they got the Howler from home…)

THE BEGINNING


End file.
